The Fifth Element
by something epic
Summary: Kill or be killed.


**Disclaimer: We do not own The Outsiders.  
>AN: Reviews would be appreciated. :) **

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><p><strong>June 5<strong>**th****, 1965**

"You can fuck right off, Tim," Marty said. A cloud of smoke puffed from his mouth as his lips formed the words, and he ashed his cigarette on the floor of the truck, like the ignorant prick he we. "I ain't gonna throw up—five whole bucks says I ain't."

"Five whole bucks?" Tim grinned and licked his lips, sliding his hands around the overly worn steering wheel. "You don't even have 'five whole bucks', Marty."

Marty rolled his eyes, because he knew Tim found it arrogant and immature, and finally cracked the window. The air was dusty outside, courtesy of a thick summertime heat and an old dirt road that had probably never seen a drop of rain. His throat was dry and chaffed, tight when he tried to speak. It was hard to believe he'd spent the last hour and a half crammed into the front of the truck without having stopped once so he could heave his guts out all over the shoulder. So far so good, but the more talking they did, the more nauseous he started to feel. The combination of anxiety and those ever vindictive nerves he couldn't rid himself of were making the space between him and Tim seem too small.

He sighed and dropped his cigarette butt out the window, and the small gust that rolled in made his stomach fluids slosh around. Tim hit a bump in the road—on purpose, he fucking swore—and he could feel himself green. His palms turned clammy and the sweat collected in his hairline; and as he sat there, hoping like hell he didn't beef, he knew that his queasiness was in part Tim's fault.

"Whaddaya reckon they're packin', Tim?" He chewed on the inside of his lip and tried to shift away from the closeness, the unease in his joints. "And if Billy Bob and his little side kick ain't playin' by our fuckin' rules..."

Tim nodded slowly, and Marty couldn t help but notice how his eyes never left the road. "Of course they're playin' by our fucking rules, man." He paused, turned the radio on to ease the tension radiating from Marty's joints. "Billy Bob... I like that."

"Wouldn't be surprised if they showed up in their fuckin' overalls and straw hats." Marty kicked his feet up on the dashboard and lit himself another smoke to beat the boredom. "Barefooted an' all... We're dealin' with some real hickjobs here, huh?"

He shook his head and pushed his hair back. It was clean for the first time in a while, because Tim told him to look sharp, to look like he knew what in the hell he was doing for once. He didn't; he'd be the first to admit that. Because when he thought about it, he knew that he and Tim weren't even playing by their own rules. Just a couple of two-faced, double-crossing sons of bitches that only did dirt. Forget being fair—neither of them ever learned the meaning of the word. And Marty, who beat out Tim's own brother for the privilege to lay claim to being the right hand, still had so much to learn. He'd never gave much thought to being a felon, because he didn't even consider the possibility of getting caught, but as the miles started to trickle by like water from the bottom of a cracked glass, the reality was starting to set in.

Looking at the situation from all angles, spinning every possible outcome around in his head, he knew Tim had sealed every corner. The plan, the set up, the stand off—every last detail planned out to damn near perfection. Of course Marty knew that he did his fair share of the work, and Tim had told him time and time again that he was a fucking genius when it came to the art of whatever the hell it was they were doing, so it had to be airtight. There was no possible way that they missed anything.

For the sake of their freedom, they better not have. Spending the rest of his life behind bars was not what Marty had in mind for his future. And if he had any brains, he wouldn't be here, because he had a brother and lunatic mother back home to take care of. Or look out for, at least, and make sure that neither of them ended up dead. He wouldn't do anybody much good locked up in the state pen, but he had trusted Tim with his life since they met in Mrs. Patten's kindergarten class twelve goddamn years ago. And now, at the ripe old age of seventeen, he'd throw himself right into the arms of Death as long as Tim was the one that had his back. Because if there was anybody that can outsmart something as infinite as Death, it had to be Tim fucking Shepard.

He had absolutely nothing to worry about.

"Tim..." He swallowed around something that burned the way he imagines the sun would and rolled the window down more. "What if we ain't able to understand shit that they're sayin...?"

He heard Tim sigh, and his lips quirked into a grin. "They're from Texas," Tim said, and boy-howdy did he sound impatient. "We ain't dealing with goddamn Mexicans or Indians, for fuck sakes."

"You owe me another five whole bucks if they show up barefooted." He noded as if that made it official, and when Tim let out a throaty chuckle, he knew that it was game on. There iwasn't a bet Tim wouldn't take, and there was nothing Marty wasn't willing to wager. "And if I miss my shot..."

He breathed and gave his head a shake. No way was he going to miss.

XXX

Marty was second guessing their plan.

Tim glanced at Marty. He was nervous. It was understandable; they were going outside of their comfort zones, leaving Tulsa and doing something that should have been over the heads of a couple of seventeen-year-olds.

"Everything will go as planned," Tim reassured his best friend, keeping his eyes on the road. "It always does."

Always. Tim planned for every single situation, that way there were no surprises. It was why he was so good at what he did, why he was a leader of a gang, and why he was always prepared. Tim would be lying if he said that Marty's uncertainty didn't have him on edge; he could only imagine how the guy was feeling. It was understandable. The Shepard Gang had been in the drug business for a long time, but Tim had always kept business like this to himself for this exact reason. But the time he had come, and he had to go to Texas, and he sure as hell wasn't going by himself. He wasn't born last night.

"Luckiest sonuva bitch I've ever met," Marty smirked as he nervously lit up another cigarette. Tim had to admit that he must've been born with a horse shoe up his ass or something. With all the shit he'd pulled over seventeen years, he'd never been in major trouble, except maybe a couple nights here or there in the cooler.

"Hey, don't be raggin' on my Mom, man," Tim joked. Marty gave him grin before leaning back in the passenger seat. Tim could feel Marty relax a little, making him feel a whole lot better. They balanced each other out, cancelled each other's flaws and highlighted each other's strengths.

"Oh-ho, Timmy made joke," Marty grinned, flicking his cigarette out the window. "Didn't know y' had a sense of humour."

"I wouldn't be friends with you if I didn't."

XXX

Their business exchange was taking place just outside of Oklahoma, a little ways inside the Texas border. It was something Tim had been negotiating for well over three months, making trips to Texas and back frequently. Those trips he'd drive alone and do business alone because he didn't find the need to bring someone along and risk fucking something up. But this time, he needed someone, someone he trusted, and Tim trusted Marty as much as he did his own brother. They'd known each other since they were five years old, and even though Marty goofed around a whole lot he could turn into someone as serious as Tim himself, just like flicking on a switch. It was why Marty was his right hand; he wasn't stupid contrary to popular belief.

Tim pulled off to the right of the back road where they were meeting their "business partners." They were in the middle of nowhere and all anybody could hear was the chirping of one goddamn cricket. Turning the truck off, he glanced at Marty before getting out and stretching his legs. They were early as planned, that way he was sure these hillbillies weren't going to fuck him over and it'd give Marty a few minutes to put on his game face. Tim could tell he was still nervous.

Leaning up against the front bumper, he waited for Marty to join him. When it came to matters like this, it was Tim who usually dealt with them, no one else involved; less people was always, always safer. Although it was always good to have back up, if it wasn't necessary, Tim didn't ask, mostly because he didn't know if Marty could handle certain situations. Tim watched Marty light up another cigarette as they waited.

"Make sure that's out before they get here, it makes you look nervous," Tim said. It was all about first impressions, though this time around their first impressions weren't going to last very long. They wouldn't be able to pull anything off if their business partners didn't take them seriously. Age wasn't on their side, and many people didn't take a couple seventeen year olds seriously. Not only that, if these people sensed any kind of hesitation ,this deal would be turned around so fast that they'd end up being the suckers.

"I'm gonna put it out on your goddamn face in a second," Marty snapped as he flicked away the cigarette when headlights appeared up ahead. Tim snorted before standing up a little taller. Both of their faces mirrored each other's with an unmistakable serious expression that only a few privileged people got to see them both wearing at the same time. It didn't happen often.

"They're early," Tim mumbled, spitting off to the side. It confirmed what Tim hoped it wouldn't. From the way these two goons did business, he highly doubted they were early because they were punctual. Marty cracked his knuckles nervously, his expression changing in a blink of an eye. That's the way Marty was, when it was time to put his game face on, he was just as scary as anybody else.

The red pick-up truck slid on the gravel road, coming to a stop a little ways in front of them. As the two Texans hopped out of either side of the truck, Tim could feel Marty tense beside him. Situations like these were always unpredictable; it was one thing that could actually make Tim's heart race.

"Boy howdy, Dale, lookit what we's got here," the Texan with the flannel shirt and cowboy hat said to his overweight, unshaved partner, who was following slightly behind him as they reached a comfortable distance from Tim and Marty. All Tim could think right then was how stupid they were for using names. One of the first things he even taught Curly was never, ever give people like these two shitheads on a stick your name.

Tim smirked at the idea that these two hicks thought they were scary. Tim didn't even remember the last time he was scared. These guys were slimy, but they didn't compare to some of the other guys him and Marty ran into.

"Name's Ringo," Marty chimed in a fake British accent. "I'd shake your hand but you look a might dirty."

Tim shook his head, Marty was nervous, more nervous than he thought because he only pulled this funny clown bullshit when he was scared. If Tim knew he was going to pull this shit, he would have brought Dallas Winston with him.

"And this here to my right is… Paul," Marty continued in his fake accent. Tim moved past Marty, nudging him as he made his way over to shake the hands of the guys who'd be supplying them with enough heroin and cocaine to last at least three months. It was a big trade, and Tim wanted it to be taken seriously because it was no laughing matter.

"Howdy-do, Paul," Dale said, extending out his hand to shake Tim's. Tim was actually surprised that the two cowboys were buying Marty's fake accent. They must have been one hell of a lot dumber than they looked.

Tim shook both of their hands, wondering if Marty really expected him to adapt an accent of his own.

"Your friend seems awful queer," the one in the flannel said.

Tim looked back at Marty, watching as his smirk fell into a frown. "He gets five to ten full servings of fruit a day, if you know what I mean."

The hillbillies chuckled as Dale headed towards the truck, grabbing a duffel bag out of the back seat. Marty stayed near the truck as the duffel bag was dropped at Tim's feet. Dale unzipped the bag, and Tim looked down at what would be putting food on the table for his family and the gang's families.

Tim squatted down and quickly picked up a brick of cocaine, examining it. It looked good from what he could tell, but the last thing he wanted was to get a bad rep in Tulsa for selling shit drugs. He pulled his switchblade from his back pocket and cut through the plastic that protected the drugs. Sticking a finger into the fine white powder, he knew that this was make or break. He rubbed the coke on the inside of his cheek and nodded as he zipped the duffel up and tossed it at Marty's feet.

"Alright," he said, standing up.

XXX

Marty picked the bag up and opened the back of the truck. He knew what came next, how he was supposed to act as if he was getting the money, when really all that was in the back seat was a shiny revolver with six bullets that his hands were sweaty at the thought of touching. Tim had told him he had the best shot of anybody he knew, but he didn't believe it, not when the shot counted. It was different than the hunting trips he took with his younger brother and his dad. This could very well have been the difference between life and death for them.

All it came down to was having a steady hand, which he knew he had. And when he thought about it, he wouldn't have been here if Tim didn't trust him. There was a reason he was Tim's second in command, a reason why he beat out Curly Shepard and every other guy in their gang. He just had to remember that.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead and listened to Tim make small-talk with Dale and the flannel-clad hick. All he could think about was how he had to do this quickly before he made himself sick or the two goofs caught on and drew on them. He grabbed the revolver out from under the seat and span the barrel around, counting the bullets as if he had to make sure one hadn't up and left on him. He tried to think of all the different ways this could have played out, from the gun jamming to exactly what would happen if he missed. There was no way he could imagine putting not only his but Tim's life on the line like that.

Snapping the barrel back into place, he wondered how he would be able to look at himself in the mirror after this. That was just his problem though. He was always thinking about the people he was dealing with, if they had families, somebody who was expecting them to come home at the end of the day. He knew Tim would have understood if he'd said no to the idea—which he was starting to think maybe he should have—but that wasn't him. He was loyal to a fault.

His hands were clammy. Wiping them on his shirt, he could feel a shift in the air, an urgent-ness in Tim's demeanour. He couldn't see and he couldn't breathe, and he turned sharply, his finger squeezing on the trigger without any real aim, all instinct, as if Dale and his friend were nothing but game and he'd done this a million times. The gun was warm in his hand as he watched Dale fall back against their truck, bleeding from the mouth, eyes wide and watery—his life undoubtedly passing. The hillbilly in the flannel was sprawled on the dirt, Tim standing over him, wiping the blood off his face without even batting an eye. There was so much blood that all he could see was red and all he could smell was iron. His stomach turned over, cold and heavy, and he swallowed around a hard lump in his throat.

But they weren't done. He tucked the gun into his waistband and grabbed Dale by the ankles without looking at where he'd shot him. Dale outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, but between the anxiety and the adrenaline, and his mind slipping into something Tim called survival mode, he couldn't feel a thing. The only thing he could focus on was hoisting Dale up into the back of the truck and finding the keys and figuring out how he was not only going to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach, but also avoid Tim's wrath. Because he knew he'd pulled dumb shit back there, but it was something of a defence mechanism. If he could make a joke, then things weren't that serious. But he could see the flaw in that logic. He could see the flaw in this plan, and in their thinking, and in their fucking morals and their consciences.

"Let's go," Tim said dryly, snatching the keys from him. "I'll take this truck."

He knew why. If he had to sit in that truck with those bodies in the back, he wouldn't make it half a mile before he was throwing up or trying to drive himself into the lake. He wasn't like Tim, who would be able to close his eyes at the end of night and sleep as if none of this had happened. It was a talent, being as cold and unmoved as Tim. He thought too much, felt too much and still didn't know how to shut himself off. Swinging the door open to the truck, he pinched the bridge of his nose and willed himself not to get sick. He felt as if it would, in some way, let Tim down.

He slid into the seat and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, waiting for Tim to pull out onto the little dirt road that would eventually take them to Lake Texoma. More than anything, he wanted this to be done—he wanted to close his eyes and sleep through the next twenty-four hours and go home to his mom and brother and take his weekend at his dad's. Or maybe he didn't; maybe he wanted to run down to Mexico and pick up some dark-skinned, small-waisted broad to take his mind off this, and maybe elope with her and never go back to Tulsa, because they were sure to get caught. If not now, then later, at the most inconvenient of times, when he was starting to forget. Because that was the way life worked—the way his life worked.

Of course he wouldn't have second thoughts about taking the fall for the both of them. He adjusted the rear view mirror as he started down the road, following Tim closely. It was a ten minute drive—short by any normal standard—but he wasn't looking forward to being alone with himself, to talking himself into some sort of hysteria. He swore that the next time Tim asked him to kill somebody, he wouldn't be so quick to say yes; he would think about it without being concerned over whether or not saying no would disappoint Tim. Sometimes he felt like he was a pawn in Tim's game, someone Tim wasn't afraid of using if it meant he'd get whatever it was that he wanted. But he knew better; Tim wasn't just a gang leader, or some kid he'd gone through school with, or some dipshit buddy of his. Tim Shepard and Marty Fox were close enough to be brothers, and he knew damn well that Tim had his back no matter what happened. Even if he had fucked up, he trusted Tim to be there and was sure that he would. Because the first thing Marty had learned was that you didn't leave family behind.

XXX

Tim made sure not to speed enough to be pulled over but enough to get him and Marty to the lake faster. There was still a ring in his ear but it was something he was used to by now.

He knew Marty was probably trying to keep his food down, convincing himself that he did what he did because he had to. Marty was probably feeling guilt and regret, and it was something Tim didn't want him thinking about for too long.

As soon as Marty pulled the trigger, Tim knew that he made a mistake bringing him. He was too good, his heart was too big, and Tim knew if it weren't for him, Marty wouldn't be in any gang. It hadn't phased Tim, because a long time ago he had learned that it was just business and everyone in this business died sooner or later.

Slowly pulling up near Lake Texoma, on top of a fairly steep hill, Tim jumped out of the car and looked at Marty through the windshield, both his hands tight on the steering wheel. He could see Marty take a deep breath before slowly getting out of the car.

"Let's get this over with," Marty said. Tim glanced at him and could have sworn he looked a little green. He put the car in drive as they both stood and watched as the truck slowly rolled into the lake.

As they watched the truck start to sink along with all the evidence that linked them to even being there, Marty turned around, hunched over and threw up his lunch. Tim sighed, if it were anyone but Marty he would have just left him there. Tim felt bad though. For the first time in a long time, he wished he hadn't done what he had. But what was done was done.

"That was some pretty stupid shit you pulled back there," Tim said as Marty continued to heave. "You might as well have called yourself John Lennon."

Marty spat off to the side, but stayed bent over before lifting up his hand and flipping Tim off. Tim snorted and patted Marty's back when he finally decided to stand up.

"The way I see it," Marty grinned as they made their way back to their own truck. "You owe me a buck and a quarter; that fat fuck only had one shoe on."

Their small, trivial bets had been going on since they were kids. By now they probably owed each other at least two-hundred dollars. Tim smirked and shook his head.

"Fine," he said. "But you owe me three-seventy-five for up-chucking your lunch all over the road."

XXX


End file.
